


Machine vs Wild

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Death, Brock Rumlow is too awful to acknowledge his special gay feelings, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Trash Party, Hunting, I did not intend for there to be this much jack/brock innuendo but here we are, M/M, MCU trash meme, Psychological Torture, Sexual Violence, Translation into Русский available, bros being bros, except like HYDRA style, probably shouldn't read this if you're vegan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-23 02:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: From theprompt: STRIKE and the Asset are camped out in the middle of nowhere (Siberia, Alaska, somewhere woodsy and remote) for a mission and have some time to spare, so they decide to go hunting.Except that they're not hunting deer. Their prey is the Asset itself, with its arm removed, stripped naked, maybe fed sedatives so that it doesn't have too much of an advantage. They give it a bit of a headstart and then hunt it through the woods.(It doesn’t quite go as they expect)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Machine vs Wild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852495) by [Loren_Witness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loren_Witness/pseuds/Loren_Witness)



It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Rumlow thinks as he follows Jack away from yet another footprint in the mud and further into another identical patch of tall trees.  
  
It has been two days. Two days of hauling themselves through the great northern wilderness and finding nothing other than birds and rabbits. Two days without good food or showers. Two days without any of the nice things that usually  _make up for_  bad food and no showers, like getting to kill someone. Two days of walking with guns and packs and without the asset to help carry their heavy gear. Two days of bugs eating them in the evening while Jack complains and bitches about everything that’s gone wrong so far. Hours and hours and hours today of Jack following “trails” based on blurred footprints and disturbances and other supposed signs that inevitably lead fucking nowhere.  
  
“You think it could just run away? Like, actually fuck off?” Jack asks now, for the fourth time today. Jack has been getting gradually crankier and crankier since this thing started, and has especially been going downhill today. Right now, he gives Rumlow a brief look over his shoulder that indicates that if they  _do_  find what they’re looking for, Jack is perfectly ready to put down the gun he’s holding, pull out the knife that’s clipped to his belt, and start cutting throats. Rumlow might even be intimidated by that look, if he were anyone else.  
  
“It can’t run away,” Rumlow tells him. “It’s against its programming.”  
  
That had been the beauty of making the asset participate in this: they had threatened it enough to make it clear that it  _had to_  try to get away from them—but of course it can’t get away, not really, not enough to make it safe. Rumlow had seen the realization of this dilemma start to dawn in its eyes already as they had stripped it, as they had taken its arm, as it had started to realize what they were planning to do. The asset always looks kind of horrified when it is alone with them, and with good cause, but this look in its eyes had been a fucking  _ocean_  of horror. Rumlow had wanted to pull his dick out and fuck it right there, but they’d had so many other things to do. Maybe that had been his first mistake.  
  
They keep walking now, Rumlow a few steps behind. The forest around them is close to silent, the only noises the occasional insect or bird and the steady quiet tread of Jack in front of him. Everything is monotonous green, the trees and plants and moss and the camo clothing Jack is wearing and the pack he is carrying, as if the environment is trying to rub in just how much the two of them have managed to fail at finding anything out of the ordinary. The little ferns that grow everywhere at ankle level look undisturbed. There’s no sign anyone has been through this way. He barely remembers what signs, exactly, Jack thought he had seen before, apart from that footprint. Jack is supposed to be the experienced hunter, but for all Rumlow knows, the guy is making shit up.   
  
“The drugs we gave it must have worn off by now,” Jack says after a while, shifting his grip on his gun to wipe at his face with the back of one forearm.  
  
“Yep,” Rumlow says. Jack isn’t exactly a big conversationalist, and to have brought up these two sentences within the same ten minutes means one thing: he is trying to make excuses to himself. Jack is the supposed hunter, which means their utter failure to find the asset must be hitting him harder. Rumlow is just tired and horny and desperately wishing for a shower, but Jack must be facing some sort of existential crisis.  
  
Rumlow doesn’t have much energy for sympathy, though. He’s getting—concerned. Not just annoyed, but actually worried. The thing that’s becoming obvious to both of them by now, even though neither of them will admit it out loud, is that the footprints and disturbances that Jack has been finding and following since this afternoon, and perhaps some of the earlier signs as well, are too regular, just slightly too obvious, so good at leading them somewhere and then disappearing, that a reasonable person has to concede that…  
  
… they are being played.   
  
The reason Rumlow hasn’t said anything about it yet, despite how tired and fed up he is, is something else he doesn’t want to admit: if he’s right, if they really  _are_  being so hopelessly outmaneuvered by the thing they're supposed to be hunting, then  _he has no idea what the fuck to do next_. It’s late afternoon, it’ll be getting dark soon, and he is going to have to convince Jack to turn back and return to the decently comfortable place they’d camped at last night next to the stream. It’s not far away, on account of they’ve spent most of the day going in a huge fucking circle. He’ll probably be able to do it without too much whining, even if he has to pull rank. But as for what to do after that, he has no clue.   
  
Fuck this whole stupid idea, Rumlow thinks. He’s getting hungry—it must be getting close to dinner time, although he’s too fed up to check the exact time—and he’s sweaty and fucking filthy, but mostly he just really, really wishes he could fuck something.   
  
Because by this stage in his life, being around the asset is like a fucking Pavlovian reaction in his balls: he’s so used to fucking it that just seeing the thing kicks his sex drive up to “desperate teenager” levels. And that’s just great, most of the time. But now Rumlow has been waiting to fuck the asset for over 48 hours—after turning down an actual good chance to fuck it, goddammit—and it feels like a lifetime vow of celibacy. It’s not like there’s much else to think about out here, with nothing but trees and ferns and wet dirt and damp and moss and  _more trees_.  
  
Jack hadn’t exactly helped the matter last night in their tent, either. He’d started jerking off maybe two minutes after they had both laid down, an extremely loud and obvious shuffling sound from inside his sleeping bag, which was only a couple of feet from Rumlow’s. The noise had stopped after several uncomfortable minutes, and then started again. Then stopped.   
  
It was close to pitch black inside the tent, and silent, and that had just made it worse. Like being trapped inside a sensory deprivation chamber with a pervert.  
  
Finally Rumlow had pushed himself up on his elbows and glared, although of course he could barely see him, or anything. “Just fucking do it already,” he’d hissed. “You know I can hear you.”  
  
“I don’t have a sock or anything,” Jack had said, matter-of-factly. “It’ll get all over my sleeping bag.”  
  
“Use the ones I saw you put next to your fucking boots, genius.”  
  
“I have to wear those tomorrow.”  
  
“A dirty sock, then. What am I, your remedial jerk-off tutor?”  
  
“They’re right at the bottom of my pack.”  
  
For god’s sake. Jack was fucking  _whining_ , making stupid complaints on purpose because he was sulky that he couldn’t put his dick in the asset.   
  
“Look, I didn’t know that finding it would take this long either,” Rumlow had snapped. “Find something else to put your jizz inside.”  
  
“Is that an offer?”  
  
“Shut the fuck up.”  
  
Jack had eventually found something, or Rumlow assumed he did anyway, because there had been movement and the sound of his pack opening and some more awkward shuffling in the dark, and then the rhythmic noises had resumed.   
  
Rumlow had laid on his back on his thin sleeping pad and had resolutely kept both his hands up out of the sleeping bag, close to neck level and exposed to the cool night air. It had been—very uncomfortable. Rumlow kind of  _likes_  sharing the asset with Jack, especially the times they’re able to use it both at once. Without it there with the two of them, though, Jack jerking off in the same tent had seemed kind of gay.   
  
So he’d waited, and he could smell the sweat on his skin even over the insect repellant and the sharp smell of the soil outside, and Jack had come ten minutes later making the same sounds he always makes, and he could smell that as well, and Rumlow had stayed there unmoving in the dark until Jack had drifted off to sleep beside him as the insects had sung outside, and eventually his own erection had given up and subsided.   
  
Maybe that hadn’t been the right choice, either, because today Rumlow is still as sexually frustrated as ever, and it doesn’t seem like the situation is going to change. Because, as he is sure Jack is starting to realize now as well, it turns out that hunting the world’s greatest assassin is actually  _really fucking difficult_.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s about to finally announce his frustration with Jack’s supposed “trail” when it happens.   
  
There’s no warning at all. One second, Rumlow is taking a normal step forward into a normal patch of muddy ground next to a normal conifer tree. The next, something falls from the fucking sky.   
  
 _Heavily_. It hits the ground five feet from where Rumlow is standing, and the impact makes a sound like someone’s dropped a refrigerator out the window of a tall building. Rumlow is not dumb and inexperienced enough to fall backwards onto his ass, but he does take a step backward.  
  
“What the fuck?” Jack yells, gun raised and already looking through its sight to the trees above them, and Rumlow would usually follow suit, but it’s become clear to him already that they’re not actually in danger.  
  
The thing that had fallen is a doe, decent-sized if not huge, and clearly only recently dead. Its head is twisted backward the way he has seen happen to animals like it who have wound up lying on the side of the highway: eyes black and staring, reflecting the light in the sky. “A deer,” he says.  
  
“I know it’s a fucking deer. What the  _fuck_ ,” Jack repeats, neck still craned and without taking his eyes off the tree, and Rumlow gives him a  _shut up_  look, and even though Jack isn’t looking at Rumlow he is accustomed enough to that look for it to work anyway.   
  
“Lower your gun,” Rumlow says, and Jack does, a little bit, although not quite as low as Rumlow is holding his now. Once he’s checked to see that he’s followed the order Rumlow looks up himself, up at the extremely tall conifer they’re standing below and that Jack had been trying to scan through the gun’s sight.   
  
He spots what is up there after only a few seconds, although he’s honest enough to admit that it’s probably because what is up there is currently allowing itself to be spotted.  
  
“It’s an offering,” Rumlow says, and he laughs. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly it’s the best he’s felt all day. Maybe because it actually is pretty funny.  
  
Jack gives him a look that repeats the  _what the fuck_  question, even if he’s not allowed to ask it anymore.  
  
“An offering,” Rumlow says. “Like, a substitute. It thinks if it give us something else we won’t kill it. It hunted a deer for us.”   
  
“You gotta be kidding me,” Jack mumbles, and Rumlow laughs again. He makes a show of lowering his gun further, shifting it to one hand and letting the barrel point down toward the dirt. He uses his newly freed hand to wave up at the tree.  
  
“Come down,” he calls, and takes a few steps back to give it room. “You can come down, all right? We won’t shoot.”  
  
The guns he’s talking about shooting are only tranquilizer guns, of course, the type that use .22 blanks to propel a dart filled with medication that’ll give the asset nothing more than a nasty puncture wound and a few hours of wooziness. But the asset clearly doesn’t know that, can’t tell from where it is. They had deliberately left the non-lethal-projectile aspect kind of vague at the beginning. All the asset knows right now is that the two of them are very good shots.  
  
There’s a flash of movement up in the tree, but nothing more.  
  
“It’s okay,” he says. “We’re not going to shoot, I promise.”  
  
Next to him, gun still not-really-lowered, Jack makes an amused noise that indicates he very much is still going to shoot. Rumlow shushes him quietly, gestures for him to lower the gun more. “It’s okay,” he says again, using the calm animal-trainer voice that usually works well when the asset is intimidated. “We accept your offering. You can come down now.”  
  
He means it, as well. Jack might not be happy right now, but this has just made Rumlow’s day a lot better, and has definitely solved a lot of his problems.  
  
There’s a rustling sound from up near the trunk of the tree far above, and then the branches up there shake, and then the asset drops down from a height that would have broken the legs and maybe the spine of a normal human.   
  
Even with the unfamiliar weight distribution from losing its prosthetic, even with only one arm for balance, it lands like the fall is absolutely nothing, going into a slight crouch before standing upright in front of them. Then it reconsiders, turning from Rumlow’s own smiling face to take in Jack’s extremely unamused expression, and drops silently down onto its knees in the damp soil. Begging. Kneeling silently beside the offering.   
  
It’s still completely naked, and whole its body is filthy—covered, Rumlow realizes, not just with the expected dirt but also with what looks like dried blood, smeared all over its torso and limbs. Something is also covering the silver metal that makes up what’s left of its arm at the shoulder joint: something furry; the external remains of some unfortunate animal that the asset must have killed for food at some point. It had covered the metal to stop it reflecting. Its face is smeared heavily with dark red from the same animal, or from another one: makeshift camouflage paint.   
  
It had known they were coming, known they were tracking it, known that had to get away and yet couldn’t get away, so it had broken this deer’s neck, hauled it up a tree, and waited for them. It had snuck up close enough to get into hand-to-hand combat with a fucking deer. On short notice. With one arm.  
  
The  _competency_  of it is so fucking incredible he can feel himself getting hard, a little bit. It’s like he sometimes feels when he watches the asset kill a target in a particularly creative way, but the fact that it had managed  _this_ , without the arm, in a new environment, while drugged and confused and without weapons—that’s so much better.  
  
The asset looks up at him now. Its eyes look very blue next to the dark red smeared across its cheekbones and along its brow. There’s more old blood in its hair, clumping it into thick dirty strands. Its right hand is dark red like it’s been dipped in blood. It looks like a fucking caveman, and seeing the evidence of this primal achievement almost makes him want to shake its hand. He almost wants to kiss it.   
  
But that’s gay as hell, Jesus. Besides, Rumlow knows the kind of things that have been in that mouth.   
  
Next to him, Jack is shifting his weight from one foot to another in the dirt. “Let me shoot it,” he says quietly. “Just once? I’ve been waiting for this.”  
  
“If you knock it out, we’ll have to drag it  _and_  the deer back with us.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye Rumlow sees Jack look from the asset to the dead animal, then back again, and then again. “Fine,” he says grumpily. Then to the asset: “We’re still going to do other shit to you, though.”  
  
Rumlow rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to tell it that. We  _always_  do other shit to it.”  
  
The asset tracks this conversation with its eyes, silent. It gives no reaction to Jack’s declaration except for its throat moving silently as it swallows. It doesn’t react at all when Jack sighs and turns away from them both to look at the deer.  
  
Looking at the carcass seems to cheer him up a little. He sets his gun down, propping it up carefully against a nearby fallen branch so it doesn’t get dirt in the muzzle, even though they really don’t have much use for it anymore. Then he shrugs off the pack he’s carrying, opens it, and starts pulling stuff out.   
  
He’s brought… equipment. Gloves, a small set of knives, something that looks like parachute cords, other stuff—Rumlow doesn’t get a great look. Rumlow is not exactly an experienced hunter, no, but it’s clear that Jack is planning on dressing the animal right here, and that he had brought stuff to let him do it.   
  
Jack starts laying the things out, and Rumlow glances at the asset. Its face is still blank, but Rumlow is experienced enough at dealing with it that he can spot the tension in its neck and in its remaining human shoulder.   
  
He can’t say he doesn’t understand that reaction, because he’s thinking about what the hell is going on, too. Did Jack bring along this stuff for show, or was he planning to do an animal hunt on the side, or did he— _did he actually think he’d be using any of this stuff on the asset?_  
  
No, Jack can be dumb sometimes but he isn’t  _that_  dumb, not dumb enough to think that HYDRA would waste their prized cyborg assassin on a STRIKE guy who wanted to have a bit of fun with a hunting knife. Not until after it had failed a few missions, anyway.  
  
Whatever the reason, Jack seems to be enjoying himself now, and that’s nice, even if what follows is not a particularly pleasant sight. He turns the deer so it’s on its back, spreads its back legs apart, selects a knife, and starts cutting into the hide below its genitals.   
  
“See, your asshole is only going to have the second worst night around here,” he says to the asset as he reaches into the new wound and pulls out the colon.  
  
“Jesus  _Christ_ , Jack,” Rumlow says.  
  
The asset keeps its eyes on the motion of Jack’s hands, but doesn’t answer. Which is probably the wisest way to react when Jack starts with his innuendo.  
  
Jack cuts upwards along the length of the animal’s stomach, slices around inside a bit before reaching in and pulling out the whole mess of its organs in a giant clump, the guts trailing sticky bits of connective tissue. He drops this wet pile on the ground right next to where the asset is kneeling, close enough that some of the blood that falls out of the deer as well splatters onto the skin of the asset's thighs. The asset doesn’t move.  
  
Rumlow rolls his eyes again. “Okay, Jack, we get the idea. Finish up quick so we can head back to where we camped.” Despite the unsavory animal smells that come with standing next to a cut-open deer, he’s hungry. And tired. And horny. But he isn’t going to fuck the asset here. Partially because the combined smell of deer guts and the asset itself isn’t very conductive to a good time. But mostly because, with the way he’d felt when he saw the asset before, he doesn’t want to risk accidentally saying something that might embarrass him in front of Jack.   
  
“We can’t eat all of it,” he continues. “Just cut off a fucking leg or something so we’re not sitting in a camp tonight with a half-eaten deer carcass.”   
  
Jack grumbles something about waste, but doesn’t complain any more than that. Rumlow waits as he uses another knife to start cutting away chunks of muscle from the hollowed-out inside of the doe’s body. Rumlow’s gun and his pack are getting heavier by the minute, and he’s already spent more of his day than he wants to standing right next to deer intestine.   
  
It’s getting darker: the sun isn’t down, but it’s getting well below the treeline now, and the trees around here are thick, only a few rays really penetrating. The dark blood on the asset’s face looks almost black as it keeps its eyes fixed on what Jack is doing.   
  
Jack wraps up the meat in some more clear bags he pulls out of his pack, and holds them to out to the asset, who silently reaches out to take the meat, holding the packages against its body with its remaining arm.   
  
“Don’t fucking drop any,” Jack says, as if the asset has ever dropped anything by accident in its entire miserable life, and then he packs up his gear and retrieves his gun and they finally start to move. Rumlow leads the way, and asset gets to its feet silently and follows them.  
  
It’s a long trip back, or maybe Rumlow is just impatient because he’s so hungry. The need for food has overtaken any former complaints from his dick. He’d been planning on snacking shortly before the asset had turned up with its little gift, and he would kill to eat something now, but Jack keeps talking about cooking the venison they’d acquired like it’s something he’s been waiting to do his whole life.  
  
“What about bears?” Rumlow says. “Do they get attracted to meat if we’re cooking it?”  
  
Jack gives him a look. “We can defend ourselves against bears. I’ll store everything proper after. So like… you really never done anything like this before?”  
  
“I buy my meat in the supermarket, it’s a perk of not being a fucking savage.”  
  
Jack glances over his shoulder at the asset, then looks back at him. “This way is better.”  
  
The asset says nothing, its face sullen and shadowy with the blood.   
  
Rumlow decides that pulling out an energy bar when Jack is being like this wouldn’t be a good idea. The things he does for his buddy, honestly.   
  
It’s late dusk by the time they finally get there, sunlight deep orange where it cuts through the trees. Rumlow starts setting up the tent again, while Jack begins on a fire. The asset hovers a few feet behind Rumlow, like it’s uncertain what to do.   
  
“For fuck’s sake, stand back a bit. You smell like roadkill.”  
  
The asset takes exactly one step back. Even in this light, Rumlow catches that its eyes move over to Jack, and then back again.   
  
Oh. The asset always likes hanging around Rumlow more than the other guys, but  _that’s_  why it’s being particularly clingy right now: Jack’s little performance back there had scared it.   
  
It makes even more sense when Rumlow thinks about it: earlier, Rumlow had only promised the asset that they weren’t going to  _shoot_  it. It still doesn’t know for sure whether they’re planning on doing something else to it, some other grisly form of death, or perhaps just leaving it down another limb.  
  
Usually Rumlow would correct that misperception, because the asset had done so well out there and he’s genuinely impressed with it, but on the other hand he doesn’t want to ruin Jack’s fun.  
  
“You’re fucking filthy,” he says instead. “Go down to the stream and wash. Don’t get your arm wet though, the techs will kill me if the water messes up the insides.”   
  
It nods, and then for half a second its eyes move past Rumlow again to where Jack is crouching next to the new fire, the bags of bloody meat stacked on the ground next to him. Now there is something other than fear in its expression.   
  
Yeah, it must be starving. Clearly it had been doing all right with killing small animals for food, but it’s hard enough for a normal person to eat enough to sustain them in the woods for days, and the asset has a ridiculous metabolism.  
  
“The meat is for us,” Rumlow says. “It was a gift.”  
  
It nods without speaking, a few thick strands of bloodied hair falling across its face.  
  
“But maybe if you’re good, we’ll give you something.”  
  
It nods again, and then it’s gone, finally, and Rumlow turns back to the half-assembled tent. Fuck, he should have thought of this before they’d left the rest of the deer back under that tree. It would have been funny to watch the asset eating brains or eyeballs or something. Not that the asset itself would give a shit, but it would have made a damn good video.


	3. Chapter 3

Rumlow has to admit that Jack does pretty a pretty good job with the meat. He’d brought stuff for it, as well—cooking equipment and meat tenderizer, what the _fuck_ was that about, did Jack think that they were going to _eat the asset?_ —and he gives Rumlow a huge chunk of cooked venison steak wrapped in aluminum foil and Rumlow eats it sitting on a rock by the fire in the dark, tearing the meat with his teeth, and it’s good.

Rumlow still really does have a tender spot for the asset right now, so he lets it sit pretty close to the fire too, since it’d been shivering when it came back from the water. The asset sits down in a spot it seems to have chosen based on calculations about how to get close enough to the flames to get a decent amount of warmth, while still maintaining as much distance as possible from Jack. It doesn’t ask for anything while Rumlow is eating, not even clothes, just keeps quiet and doesn’t bother Rumlow with any more of the pleading looks, and so when they’re done Rumlow decides to have mercy on it.

“Here,” he says, and holds out one of the leftover wrapped steaks that Jack had given him. There’s a few of them left: Jack really had brought way too much. The foil package has cooled down enough now that Rumlow can hold it easily. 

Jack gives a disapproving grunt from where he’s sitting on a camping stool a few paces away, but Jack isn’t in charge here, so Rumlow ignores him. 

The asset scrambles forward, reaches out its hand and takes the packet of cooked venison with an expression like it has just realized it’s in heaven. It looks up at Rumlow like he is the greatest possible human being it can imagine existing, and that gets him a bit hard again.

A part of him wants to tell the asset to put the food on the ground, make it eat its food like a dog like they sometimes do when they’re fucking with it, but—nah, he’s feeling too nice. 

Instead, he just watches. The asset eats quickly, either because it’s so hungry or because it’s afraid Rumlow will change his mind. Cleaning itself in the stream had gotten rid of the bad smell, but the water had also washed all that animal blood off its face, and something in Rumlow feels disappointed at that. Its skin looks pale now even in the warm orange light of the fire. Its left shoulder is bare again, too, the flames reflecting off the silver there. 

The meat disappears more quickly than seems possible with something close to human doing the eating, and Rumlow throws it another foil-wrapped package, ignoring the death-glare he gets from Jack. The meat inside this one disappears as well, and Rumlow watches as the asset presses the empty sheet of crumpled foil to its mouth to drink up the juices that have collected there, sucks more liquid off the side of its hand.

Rumlow shifts to adjust his pants a little.

“Come here,” he says. The words come out quiet, barely loud enough to be heard over the crackling of the fire and the very faint sound of the water nearby. 

But the asset hears. It drops the piece of aluminum foil—it’s the same color as its shoulder, Rumlow thinks dumbly as he watches it fall to the dirt beside the fire—and closes the short distance between them, kneeling between his knees without being told as Rumlow spreads his legs wider to give it space. Off to his side, Rumlow can just see Jack turning away to look in the direction of the trees, in a display of giving them privacy. It’s an act, Rumlow knows: he’ll turn back and stare at them eventually, he always does. 

The asset is close enough now for him to see that its lips and chin are still wet from eating the meat, and its expression is still fucking _worshipful_ ; Rumlow undoes his belt and unzips the fly of his camo pants and it looks up at him with its mouth slightly open and its eyes as bright as the fire, like the idea of sucking off a man who hasn’t bathed properly in two days is the best possible way it can imagine its evening going.

Then again, maybe it _is_ the best way it can imagine its evening going, the miserable fucking wretch.

Rumlow keeps his eyes on its face as he strokes himself the rest of the way to hardness, uses his other hand to take hold of a handful of hair at the back of its head. The hair is still wet from the stream, cold and slippery in his fingers, but he gets a good grip and uses it to guide the asset’s head a little closer toward him. Unnecessary—it’s not like the asset doesn’t know where Rumlow’s cock is—but he likes controlling this part and the asset knows this. He stops when the asset’s mouth is at the head of his cock, presses the tip against its wet lower lip. It stays still, the way he likes it at the beginning, although he sees its throat move as it swallows, its human shoulder twitching.

“Open,” Rumlow says, and the asset does.

It’s quiet enough out here that he can hear the little wet sounds as his cock slips into its mouth, can hear the obscene noise like suction breaking whenever he pulls himself back out. The asset, free to take more initiative now, wraps its hand around the base of his cock and crowds in closer between his legs, like it’s looking for warmth. Trying its best, and yet somehow this is not quite what Rumlow wanted, not quite what he’d been imagining for most of the day while bored and trailing behind Jack, or during the trip back when he’d been trying to keep his mind off a different type of hunger. 

Rumlow eases the asset’s hand off his cock with the hand that's not still in its hair, and the hand moves over to clutch needily at Rumlow’s clothed thigh instead, its fingers digging into the skin there almost painfully. Rumlow is able to thrust further into its mouth now that the barrier of the asset’s grasping fingers has been removed, and maybe it’d help if he just went at it like he sometimes does, just work his way all the way down the asset's tight throat until it chokes—but it’s just eaten so much and Rumlow has seen enough fucking weird shit today without risking the asset puking all over him as well. 

“Should’ve waited to feed you until after,” he mumbles. 

It doesn’t reply, obviously, and Rumlow pulls it off him completely, dragging it backward by the hair. 

The asset’s mouth is wetter now, chest moving as it breathes deep. Somewhere along the way it had stopped with the eye contact, its gaze sliding off to one side like it’s thinking about something else. Like this isn’t important enough. Annoyed, Rumlow slaps its cheek, and it focuses back on him, a fraction of a second too slow.

Ideas flitter through his head. Off to his side, Jack is no longer pretending not to look at them, and Rumlow fights down the urge to slap the asset again just for something to do. Instead, he moves his hand from its hair to cup it lightly around its throat. The skin there is scratchy, rough with stubble under his palm. 

He can feel Jack’s gaze on them, silent, as he pulls the asset toward him and back onto his dick, shifting his hips a little to make the angle easier. The mouth around him is hot and wet, and Rumlow tries to go back to where his mind had been before, when the asset had jumped out of that tree like some sort of deranged mutilated hunting god—but the feeling is just never 100% _there_ , and it’s only when the asset starts drooling enough to get Rumlow’s hand on its throat wet that he can push himself enough to finally come, spilling down the back of its tongue as the pulse in its neck throbs and throbs under his fingers.

The asset swallows, waits, breathing steady around the last few lazy twitches of his cock. Rumlow does feel better, but… that really wasn’t as great as he’d been hoping. Annoyed, he lets go and pushes the asset off him, starts to do up his pants. 

From nearby, Jack clears his throat. Rumlow looks up at him, expecting the look he might usually see on Jack’s face at a time like this: calm, horny, maybe a bit impatient. Instead, his friend looks fucking furious.

Jack still isn’t over his bad mood from before, then. He’d seemed really angry about Rumlow giving the asset some of the meat, as well, although who the fuck knows what that was about. All Rumlow knows is that Jack has a very distinct _I want to kill something_ expression, and that right now it is not aimed at him.

Jack beckons with his head at the asset as Rumlow’s finishing doing up his belt. The asset is still sitting in the dirt in front of Rumlow, and its eyes move to Jack, then back to him.

“Fucking _go_ ,” Rumlow spits. What, did it start thinking it had a choice about this stuff?

The asset watches him for half a second longer, its face blank and shadowy in the light from the fire. The pause is long enough that Rumlow might be worried, if it weren’t so obvious that it’s not defiance that is causing the delay. The asset’s muscles are tense, eyes just a little too wide, and Rumlow can almost smell the new sweat that’s forming on its skin. 

It is scared.

But its programming is too good, and so it moves, starts to rise to its feet to move over to where Jack is sitting.

“Crawl, bitch,” Jack says, and the asset drops immediately. It crawls over the dirt, the movement slow and awkward with its missing limb, and as it does it Jack reaches down, and takes hold of the knife clipped to his belt.


	4. Chapter 4

Rumlow can tell that the asset wants to move very fast in the opposite direction. It wants to run. It probably wants to do a lot of things. But it keeps going, towards Jack’s smile and his knife, until it stops in front of his booted feet, its head down so that its hair falls over its face. There’s just enough room between where Jack is sitting and the edge of the campfire for the asset to be able to angle itself into a kneeling position there without risking second-degree burns to its extremities, although its feet must be getting uncomfortably warm.  
  
Jack’s slow about what he’s doing: he taps his index finger against the handle of his knife once, twice, then unclips the knife from his belt, unfolds the folding blade. The fire crackles, glints off the metal as he raises it a little. From where he’s sitting Rumlow no longer has the best view of the asset, but in the black-and-orange light he can just see the shadows move on the side of its face as it clenches its jaw.   
  
“I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” Jack says, and now the edge of the blade is hard against the asset’s neck where Rumlow’s hand had been minutes before, digging in just below its Adam’s apple.   
  
It doesn’t move. The sweat on its skin glows in the light.  
  
“What do you think’d happen if I cut you open here?” Jack says, jerking the blade a little for emphasis but still avoiding cutting skin. “You think you’d heal up before you bled out? What do you think?”  
  
Silence, except for the fire and the faint sound of insects in the trees, of water far away. The asset swallows, Rumlow can tell from the way the blade stutters in Jack’s grip as its throat moves, but doesn’t answer. Jack usually doesn’t like it when the asset talks, which is probably why it chooses silence.  
  
“What do you think?” Jack says again, almost to himself, and the asset’s hand clenches against the side of its leg. Jack turns, looks up at Rumlow. “Can I do it?”  
  
“What the hell do you fucking think?” He is suddenly overcome with the urge to get up, go over there, and shake the stupid out of him. Scaring the asset is one thing—a very fun thing, admittedly—but no one’s  _cutting throats_.  
  
Jack scowls at him, turns back to where the asset is kneeling. “You’re lucky,” he says down to it, but then he moves the knife, firmer this time and more deliberate, and there’s a low faint noise from its throat as the blade slides half an inch along its neck anyway.  
  
_“Jack_.” This time Rumlow does stand up.  
  
“Just a cut. Just a few little cuts, all right. I won’t kill it.” He uses the tone he reserves for when he’s asking for a special favor on a mission, the tone he knows Rumlow almost always falls for. “Look. See how shallow that one is.”  
  
The cut doesn’t actually look that shallow when Rumlow stands up and steps closer to check, but it is small, and the blood isn’t spurting like he’s sliced an artery. It’s leaking out slow instead, red down the front of the asset’s neck, over its collarbone. The asset is trembling, staring off past both of them into the dark.  
  
Rumlow sighs. Obviously this is something Jack needs right now, or else he’ll never shut up and stop complaining. And he’d fed Rumlow, after all. Rumlow owes him one, even if Jack is going to use the favor on something stupid. “Fine,” he says. “But nothing deep.”  
  
The asset’s gaze turns to him, and it looks at Rumlow all wide-eyed for a second like it’s surprised, but then the expression is gone.   
  
Jack moves the knife again, hovering it down over the side of the asset’s neck, its human shoulder, all without touching the skin. The asset is doing a very good job of keeping still. It’s sweating enough for droplets to be visible on its forehead now, but that might just be the heat.   
  
This goes on for a good two or three minutes, and Jack seems to be drawing it out to annoy Rumlow more than to torture the asset, but finally he sinks the knife in, splitting open a line of skin above its elbow that moves up towards its shoulder.   
  
A whimper, and there’s more blood this time, spilling down over its forearm, its wrist. Reflecting like mercury in the light of the fire as it drips steadily into the dirt.  
  
“Mm, yeah. How’s that feel,” Jack says. “That’s what I was looking for earlier, wasn’t it?”  
  
No answer. The asset looks like it is too busy trying not to hyperventilate. Jack smiles, looks at it for a few seconds like he’s admiring his work, then gives a little satisfied smile and moves to stand. “Bend over, bitch.”   
  
The asset moves. It shifts away from the camping stool a little, creating more space between it and the fire—Jack doesn’t stop it, thankfully, although it’s probably only because he doesn’t want to risk getting burned himself—and then gets back into what would be an all-fours position if it still had four limbs, bracing itself on its single arm. Its movements have left a little trail of blood behind from its arm and neck.   
  
Jack stands up, steps behind it, like he’s enjoying just surveying it from a greater height. He is stroking his free hand idly over the front of his pants. “Hold this, will you?” he says, and holds out the knife to Rumlow with his other hand.  
  
Rumlow takes it, gladly. He also takes hold of the folding stool Jack had been sitting on, moves it a few feet so he can get a better view, and sits down on it. Maybe that was part of Jack’s bad mood, he thinks, because the idiot had also brought a  _camping stool_ ; maybe Jack was really just grumpy about carrying half a fucking house with him on his back this whole time.   
  
Jack has undone his pants in the meantime, and he drops onto his knees behind the asset, giving his dick a few lazy jerks. His cock is big, looks almost ridiculously big now as he’s kneeling behind the asset, enough to make you almost pity the poor thing.   
  
“You remember that deer?” he says, and he leans forward over the asset, chest against its back so his cock juts against its thigh, and he rubs his hand over the wound on its neck. He looks back at Rumlow. “Hand the knife back for a second.”  
  
Rumlow looks at him. Beneath him, the asset is visibly shaking.  
  
“No,” Rumlow says.  
  
“Just a little cut, on the leg. Just one more. Absolutely last thing, I promise.” He uses the same tone as before, and this time he throws in a little smile.  
  
“For Christ’s sake,” Rumlow says, but he leans over and holds out the knife. The things he does for him, honestly.   
  
Jack grabs it, shifts back so he’s upright on his knees again. He pushes the asset forward by the hips a little to create some space between them. There’s the tiniest whimpering noise as he drags the tip of the blade up along the asset’s inner thigh.  
  
“Don’t move, baby,” Jack says, half under his breath.   
  
Another little strangled noise as the knife must go deeper, and the asset obviously isn’t accustomed enough to propping itself up just on one arm, because in its moment of panic its elbow gives out and it falls forward, face smashing into the ground.   
  
Jack starts to laugh. He wipes the knife off on his pants, folds the blade back into the handle, and shoves the knife into a thigh pocket on his camo pants. “Awww, babe, that wasn’t so bad.” He slaps its thigh, lightly. “My poor thing. I’m gonna make you feel better, all right? You want that?”   
  
The asset’s face is still pressed into the dirt; it doesn’t answer.   
  
Jack snorts at the lack of response, and reaches into another pocket in his pants to retrieve a little bottle of lube. It’s the first thing he has brought along on this trip that Rumlow  _hasn’t_  been surprised by.   
  
A click and a wet sound as he pops the cap and applies the liquid liberally over one hand, and he leans down over the asset again and reaches out with his other hand, sliding it around to cup the asset’s bloodied throat and pull it upwards so the asset is resting its weight on its palm again. It doesn’t resist, of course, and stays upright like that under him, dripping more dark blood into the dirt.  
  
They both go quiet. Rumlow can tell just from the asset’s face when Jack pushes his fingers into it: its eyes closing tightly, its mouth opening enough to show teeth. It’s shaking more—Jack obviously isn’t being gentle—and when Jack follows up by digging his thumbnail into the cut on its neck the asset cries out.   
  
“I love it when it panics,” Jack grins. “Makes it all tight inside.”  
  
“You need to stop talking to me,” Rumlow says.  
  
Jack shrugs, good-natured. Cutting the asset up a bit seems to have taken the edge off his temper. He lets go of the asset’s neck, and pulls his fingers out, kneeling upright again behind it. Grips it on either side of its hips, lines himself up. Jack is usually vaguely sensible about going slowly with this shit, like a guy of his size should have learned to be by now. This time, though, he just drives himself in: one quick, forceful push.   
  
The asset howls, its back arching, and every other time Rumlow has seen Jack do this he has given it time to adjust, but now he just starts going at it, a little smirk on his face as he holds it still by the hips.   
  
“Yeah, baby, complain all you want,” he says as the asset grips its hand into the dirt, scrabbling at it like it’s trying to dig its own grave. “There’s no one around to hear.”   
  
So maybe his mood hadn’t improved, then.  
  
The asset screams again, and again. Loud, echoing in the dark open space around them and the trees. A lot more blood is dripping down onto the dirt near its knees: he can’t see from this angle whether this is from where Jack had cut it, or if Jack has torn something in its insides, or both. After a while it finally seems to run out of breath: it drops its head and just pants loudly, mouth open. Dripping with sweat, flushed all over worse than Jack is, still pushing its fingers into the dirt.  
  
“I could just fucking gut you right here,” Jack says to it, his voice rough even under the smile he’s still got on his face. “You know that? Just take my knife and slice you open, let your guts fall out into the mud.” He leans forward over the asset again, presses the palm of one hand against its abdomen, digs deep into the skin there with his index finger. “You want me to do that, bitch? You want that?”  
  
It doesn’t answer, which is fair because it is really a stupid fucking question.   
  
Jack doesn’t push it, and finally actually shuts up after that. The asset, for its part, looks like it has mostly adjusted to the pain: that is something that it’s usually good at. Its hair moves back and forth over its face every time Jack shoves into it, obstructing Rumlow’s view, but Rumlow can still see enough of its expression, see its eyes squeezed shut and its jaw tight. Its hand is still shaking. It must remember the deer. It doesn’t know if Jack really is going to kill it. It cannot do anything to escape or fight back, even if they do decide to slit its throat.   
  
Jack doesn’t let up, doesn’t go easy on it at all the whole time: this seems to be about hurting the asset more than anything else, even more about hurting it than cutting it with the knife had been. Rumlow can hear the soft whimpering coming from the asset’s mouth. Can see the asset’s fingers as they curl and curl again into the dirt, can see the tension in its muscles as it tries, desperately, to keep itself upright, to do everything it can to get Jack satisfied enough to make him stop hurting it. That animal desperation for survival. The same as when it had...  
  
Fuck. Rumlow knows now what it was that’d been missing before.   
  
He does it slow, but he lets his own hand move to the front of his pants, and he strokes through the fabric there, friction that should be painful but instead just makes the need more urgent. He looks at the blood on asset’s skin, on its its neck and arm, and keeps touching himself like that, slow, thumb moving up and down just beside the zipper of his pants.  
  
Jack, thankfully, doesn’t take long: less than ten minutes before he’s fucking into the asset with a few final hard, ramming strokes that make its arm buckle again, sending it back down into the dirt. Jack makes the same noises he'd made in the tent last night when he comes, and Rumlow is fully hard again now, uncomfortably strained in his pants.   
  
Jack pulls out, slaps it on the ass afterward like he always does. The asset sinks down slowly so it’s lying prone on the ground, face pressed to one side. It’s shaking hard.  
  
“Not bad,” Jack says. He stands up, stretches his arms over his head, looking as happy and relaxed as a cat waking up from a nap. His clothes, his stomach, his still-mostly-hard cock are all covered with blood. He grins at Rumlow, showing teeth. Rumlow hates that he gets harder.  
  
“Gotta wash up,” Jack says, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then turns off in the direction of the stream. He sighs happily as he goes, rolling his shoulders like he’s releasing the last of his tension.


	5. Chapter 5

Rumlow’s fingers feel like they won’t move fast enough as he removes the long-sleeved camo top that he’s wearing, pulls off his t-shirt. He sets down the clothing carefully on top of the camping stool. He doesn’t want them to get covered in blood, and besides, he’s already feeling uncomfortably warm. He is probably sweating almost as hard as the asset already.  
  
The asset makes an effort to move when Rumlow stands and steps closer to it, but not much of one. Its skin is wet, the hard muscles of its back like amber in the light. It seems to be trying to push itself back up.  
  
“Just turn over onto your back,” Rumlow says to it, and the asset might not be having the best night of its life right now, but it’s not dumb: it obeys the order, rolling over in a direction that takes it further away from the fire.   
  
It looks up at Rumlow as he takes another step closer, its eyes dull. Its face has that especially dazed, lost-inside-its-own-head look that Rumlow usually only sees after an entire STRIKE team has had a particularly brutal go at it. Jack is special that way, he supposes.   
  
It’s also filthy with blood, dirt from the ground sticking to the entire front of its body, and that’s… very good.   
  
“It’s okay,” Rumlow says, and the asset seems to wake up a little bit, eyes focusing on Rumlow. He kneels down next to it. “He’s done with you now,” he says. “It’s okay.”  
  
The asset nods. It doesn’t look relieved, doesn’t show any kind of emotion, but it  _does_  look like it believes him, even though it has no reason to. The thing has endless reservoirs of trust when it comes down to it, like a dog, which is maybe why so many people find it fun to fuck with it.   
  
Rumlow isn’t lying this time, though. Jack really is done with it.  
  
He’s not, though.  
  
With all the sweat on its skin, the blood on its neck still hasn’t dried, even though the wound has stopped bleeding. Rumlow smears his fingers into this sticky mess, warm and slimy on his skin. He reaches up and rubs the red liquid over the asset’s cheekbones, its brow.   
  
“There. Looks much better,” and then Rumlow moves, shifting over and moving the asset’s legs so he’s sitting between them, in the dirt. His hands are still slippery with blood when he undoes his own pants again.   
  
The asset jerks little when it realizes what’s going to happen, the muscles in its thighs tensing, its eyelids fluttering. The metal stump of its left arm twitches. But it has settled too deep into that resigned, not-really-there state: it doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move when Rumlow leans over it and guides himself inside.   
  
There’s enough lube and blood left from Jack’s adventure that Rumlow slides into it easily. That shouldn’t feel good: it should be gross to know he’s basically fucking another man's come out of the asset’s insides. But the wetness and the ease with which he can push inside feel  _great_ , intimate in a disturbingly good way.   
  
The asset lies still when he begins to fuck it. Its face is bright, the flames reflecting on the dark blood he’d smudged on its face and on the heavy wetness in its eyes. Rumlow leans down closer over it so that its legs are pressed upwards: this way, he can feel more of its blood against his own bare skin, can smell the sharp metallic scent of its blood up close, the new sweat on it and the fresh dirt. When he starts licking at the blood on the asset’s face, its eyes spill over. He licks those tears away, too.  
  
“Shh,” he says. “You were amazing today. So brave.”   
  
It doesn’t react, just gazes off somewhere past him into nothing.   
  
No matter.  _This_  is what’d been missing earlier, the asset looking like it had before, all filthy and bloody, after what it had done to that deer,  _fuck_ , and goddamn Rumlow just wants so badly again just to kiss it on the mouth…  
  
… but Jack could be back at any minute, and might be watching them already, so Rumlow just bites at the edge of its jaw instead, teeth scraping gently against its skin, kisses it where the stubble is rough against his mouth.   
  
“So—brave—” he says again, “fucking  _beautiful_ ,” right next to one bloodied cheekbone, and when he comes it’s like goddamn fireworks.  
  
He lies on his back on the ground next to it, after, the asset between him and the ebbing fire, and he doesn’t even care that he’s covered in blood and sweat now too, that his chest is slimy and tacky, that his back is in the cold dirt. He can’t stop grinning. He feels wonderful. It’s not cloudy tonight, and the stars look  _amazing_  out here.   
  
He is on the verge of just dozing off like that when Jack shows back up, barefoot in new dry clothes and his hair wet. He’s lit a cigarette, the tobacco smell of it sharp even next to the smoke of the fire. Rumlow smiles up at him lazily, and Jack smiles back as he settles back down on the stool, looking like a man deeply satisfied. Rumlow doesn’t even mind that he’d shoved Rumlow's clothes out of the way to do so.  
  
“Guess we know who won that hunt, then,” Jack says after a while, his voice all low and velvety like it always gets after he’s had sex.  
  
“Wasn’t exactly a competition,” Rumlow says, stretching out a little so that his neck cracks satisfyingly.  
  
“Was too. And we both know I won.” Jack takes another happy drag of his cigarette, and then there is a soft, croaky voice from next to where Rumlow is lying.  
  
“I did, though,” the voice says.  
  
Rumlow freezes.   
  
Jack does, too. Rumlow has already turned his head to look at the asset, but he’s pretty sure he sees Jack’s mouth fall open even before he does it.   
  
“I won,” the asset says. Its tone is flat, matter-of-fact, like it’s issuing a minor correction about the weather. “You couldn’t find me. I won.”  
  
“Jesus  _Christ_ ,” Rumlow says, and the sleepy good feeling that had been all through him has already fucking evaporated in an instant, because the asset  _does this_  sometimes, exhibits this weird brain glitch that makes it spew stupid shit out of nowhere like it’s  _trying_  to get fucking killed.   
  
“You didn’t win,” Jack snaps, and Rumlow is sitting up already, forming a shield between his friend and the asset, because no way is he letting Jack inflict more damage on the thing now, not when he’d just spent so much time stopping Jack from fucking filleting it.   
  
“You didn’t win!” Jack yells, shockingly loud, like a gunshot. He stands up, and Rumlow is on his feet too, his hands up, still between Jack and the asset, who is slowly sitting up on the ground, looking confused. “You didn’t. Win. You gave up.  _It was a fucking draw._ ”  
  
The asset looks up at Jack from where he’s sitting. Its brow is furrowed, and it frowns, confused, like it has already forgotten what it said. Although maybe that’s part of an act, and it’s trying to infuriate Jack further, who the fuck knows, Rumlow wouldn’t put anything past it at this point.  
  
Rumlow takes a deep breath, forces his voice to be calm. “Yeah, okay, a draw,” he says down to the asset. “Hear that, Soldier? You’re going to stick with that.”  
  
The asset looks up at him for a moment before it nods, still confused, like it doesn’t understand what it’s assenting to.  
  
“You see that?” Rumlow says, turning to Jack. “It agreed with you. Now back off.”  
  
Jack glares at him as he flicks his cigarette off into the dirt.  
  
“Go back to the tent,” Rumlow says firmly. “You’re tired.”  
  
Jack turns and leaves, grumbling more threats as he goes. Christ, sometimes Rumlow feels like the only adult in all of HYDRA.  


* * *

  
Jack’s still awake when Rumlow comes into the tent later, lying on top of his sleeping bag. The tent is lit up with a little LED flashlight that’s hanging by its lanyard from a hoop in the tent ceiling. Rumlow had told the asset to wash off, and then had supervised the cleanup: it would have gone much quicker with Jack around, but sending him into the tent was the best way of making sure he and the asset remained separated. Rumlow had cleaned himself up, as well, must have used half of their last remaining packet of wet wipes on that task. The asset is still out there now, watching over the camp and the fire.   
  
Rumlow had given it the last of the cooked venison, after they'd finished with everything else. It  _did_  kind of deserve it, and the meat would have gone to waste anyway.   
  
He sits down on his own sleeping bag, exhales at how good it feels to be off his feet. There’s a cut on his upper arm that he must have gotten while he was fucking the asset: he’d been holding onto it too tight, maybe, and cut himself on the edge of the metal. He takes the opportunity to examine it now in the better light: it's deep at one end, fading out to a scratch further up on his bicep. Not serious. He hears shuffling movement: Jack has sat up to get a closer look.   
  
“You okay?” Jack says.  
  
“Course.” Rumlow is feeling kind of proud of it, actually, even though it’s not exactly a battle wound.  
  
Jack leans over, examining the wound closer, and runs a rough fingertip along the edge of it.  
  
“Doesn’t hurt,” Rumlow says.  
  
Jack smiles at him, and Rumlow smiles back but doesn’t move, and Jack lies back down and Rumlow starts taking off his boots. He can still smell the blood on his own skin when he leans down to do it, despite all the wet wipes. It’s under his nails, in his hair. It must be on the ground outside, as well.  
  
“You’re not worried all the blood will attract bears?” he says to Jack. He sets the boots aside, starts on his pants.   
  
“I think the smell from those fucking boots will disguise anything within a ten-mile radius.”   
  
Rumlow lifts his hips to pull the pants down. “I smell fucking great and you know it.”  
  
Jack shrugs. “Yeah, anyway. The asset could take a bear.”  
  
Rumlow can’t help but smile as he lies down on top of his own bag. Jack isn’t the most introspective guy on the planet, so it’s impressive that he has apparently used his time-out inside the tent to come to terms with the fact that the asset  _is_ , in fact, a better hunter than either of them could ever dream of being.   
  
He plays along, pushing the question. “Without its arm? A black bear, maybe. Not a grizzly.”  
  
“You wanna tell me the asset taking down a grizzly with one arm would be the wildest shit you’ve seen it do?”  
  
“Mm,” he says. Fighting a bear  _wouldn’t_  be the wildest shit he has seen the asset do. But it  _is_  a fucking amazing thought.   
  
“You know,” Jack says. “That gives me an idea about what we can do for fun the next time we’re out here.”  
  
Rumlow laughs, sits up to turn off the flashlight.  
  
Man, right now he thinks he could almost go  _another_  round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to write a sequel about the Winter Soldier fighting a bear please feel free.


End file.
